Epilogue for Murder on the Hour
by mishti
Summary: A possible post episode piece of fluff.


Epilogue for Murder on the Hour.

It had been a very, very long day and Steve was more than ready to go home, have dinner and crash into bed. And maybe fit in a shower somewhere in between, though that was negotiable … depending on how much more exhausted he felt by the end of dinner. He had already finished a long and boring shift at work before he literally stumbled into the armed robbery in the gas station where he had stopped to fill his car. Engaging in a desperate shootout, ending with all the paperwork attached to seriously wounding the perp, was not the way he had hoped to start his off duty evening. And then to spend another couple of hours, first tracking down a pair of deranged killers at the hospital, followed by lots (really lots!) more paperwork was the absolute perfect end to this day from hell. His throat hurt where the female killer had tried to strangle him with a canula. Jerkowski was making his opinions on the shooting of his partner very clear, regardless of the fact that said partner had been in severe need of a psychiatric intervention and had killed quite a few patients just that day alone. God knows how many others he had killed over the years that they may never find out about.

A gentle hand on his back interrupted his train of thought. " Tired, son?" The tone was as gentle as the hand. "We can leave as soon as you're through."

Steve sighed. " I can't yet dad," he said. "I have to go back to the station and start the reports." His father frowned " you've given your statement haven't you? Look Steve, you should be resting that throat of yours – its swollen enough as it is. If your captain wants to know, you are on medical leave for the next 24 hours." He held up his hand as Steve tried to say something " Ah ah … your only choices are stay in the hospital for observation overnight or come home under my medical supervision. Either way the 24 hour embargo on work stands."

Under normal circumstances Steve would have protested vigorously, even knowing that there was no way he was winning this battle. Today, however, he was just tired enough and depressed enough to accept his father's edict without a fight. Mark's frown grew more pronounced as he watched Steve turn and speak to one of the other police officers on the scene, telling him that he was going home and would be on medical leave for the next 24 hours. Not only was it virtually unheard of for Steve to accept medical advice so easily (even when it was enforced by his father), more worryingly, there was an air of uncharacteristic gloom shrouding Steve and lending a miniscule slump to his shoulders. Mark knew that even after years on the job, killing came hard to Steve, causing days of self-doubt and introspection regarding the actions leading to the killing. In this case, the fact that he had killed first a police officer (albeit a rogue murderous police officer) followed a few minutes later by the killing of said police officer's equally murderous sister, would, Mark knew, be fodder for several days worth of self questioning and depression. However, Steve was also a pragmatist and he would have already accepted that neither killer had left him much choice. Mark, himself, was not given to feelings of hate and vindictiveness, but he found himself unable to mourn either killer's death – only the fact that they had escaped a well-deserved stay in jail. Killing helpless patients, a doctor that he had known if not liked very well, and the fact that they had both attempted to murder Steve, took care of all regrets. The thought of the last murderous attack in particular and the worry over Steve's obvious weariness – over and above that justified by his long day and his role in killing two people – took up most of his attention.

Not unaware of his father's concerned glances, Steve finished up as quickly as he could at the crime scene. Having satisfied himself that he had done as much as he could, given the prohibition on actually heading to the station and starting his reports, he finally turned and followed his father out to the car park. Jesse and Amanda were still on duty leaving only father and son to head towards the Beach house.

" We'll take my car" Mark's tone was firm and uncompromising " Jesse promised to drop your truck off sometime tomorrow." Steve thought briefly of protesting – after all, he only trusted himself to properly drive the truck– but it was too much trouble. As much as he hated it, he had to admit that his father was right. He was too tired to drive responsibly and his throat hurt enough to make the thought of arguing, unwise. All he really wanted to do was curl up (as much as was possible for someone of his height) on the front seat of his father's very comfortable car and forget this day had happened, at least for the time it took to reach home. Ignoring Mark's even more concerned glance at his silent acquiescence, he opened the front passenger door and slouched down on the seat.

The drive home was silent. Mark had his own emotions to deal with – the aftermath of the terror that he had felt when he realised that his son was probably the next victim, the remembered despair lurking in his mind from the reminder of Steve's (thankfully temporary) death following the shooting by Ganza's men, and the anger over so many senseless deaths, all overlain by a sharp sense of relief that Steve was alive, sitting next to him. And of course the worry about Steve's state of mind. Still he didn't want to push his son, hoping that if he left him alone Steve would share what was bothering him, on his own.

Mark's patience was rewarded over dinner. Steve had been this route too often to believe that his father would let his concerns go unaddressed for very long. Experience had taught him that talking things over with Mark was the fastest way of being left in peace to lick his wounds. Honesty compelled him to admit that the talks were also extremely therapeutic. Therefore, having satisfied his most immediate hunger, Steve decided it was time to open up a little. He started off lightly, working his way up to emotional catharsis. " What a day, dad! I can't remember the last time I had such an exciting three hours – almost killed a person per hour this time." Neither fooled by the light tone, nor amused by the bitterness underlying the lightness, Mark responded more acerbically than he had planned " Steve if you've had other days like this where you've almost been killed thrice in three hours, I don't want to know about it. All three got pretty much what they deserved so don't expect me to feel bad that they are the ones in ICU or the morgue while you sit here eating dinner!"

" Sorry dad – I didn't mean to…" Steve broke off midway unable to articulate clearly what he had meant. For the first time that night he thought about the events from his father's perspective. Wincing a little at how oblivious he had been, he noted for the first time, the clear lines of stress and worry on his father's normally cheerful face. " I just …" again he stopped unsure of how to express his thoughts without causing his father to worry even more. Always closely attuned to his son, and experienced in reading between the lines, Mark took a deep breath, consciously relaxing his body and finding a small genuine smile from somewhere within him.

" I'm sorry Steve. I'm just so glad that you are all right. When I think of how this evening could have turned out … it's going to take a while for both of us to process what happened today. I know your throat hurts to talk too much but I also know that something is bothering you – if its regrets for the deaths of Braven and his sister…"

" No dad," the interruption was immediate. "Not that I wish it could have ended with their capture rather than their deaths, but no, that's not what I've been thinking about. Well wondering, actually " his voice trailed off a little uncertainly.

Taking a deep breath, unable to look up from his plate, Steve forced the words out quickly before he lost his courage "Have I changed dad? Did coming back from the dead change me into some kind of monster, like it did for Braven's father and for that doctor?"

The silence that followed was so absolute that Steve almost despaired thinking it confirmation of his worst fears – his father didn't know how to reply truthfully. But as the silence dragged on, he had eventually to look up to see what was happening. What he saw shocked him immensely. Quietly but clearly, Mark was crying. Momentarily stunned Steve couldn't remember the last time he had seen his always-composed father cry. Mark was a private person as far as deeply felt emotions went. He'd laugh and joke with strangers but hid his grief and pain even from his son. To see him crying like this was heart breaking and Steve reached out a little blindly, his own eyes tearing up in response. "Dad, please don't… I'm sorry, I didn't mean… Dad!"

Mark heard the anguish in his son's voice and tried hard to get his tears under control. He didn't succeed completely but he did manage to find his voice. " Steve, if you had to ask me this, I've not been able to show you… tell you… how much you mean to me." His voice broke and he had to pause to push down a fresh lump in his throat. "There hasn't been one single day since the shooting, when I haven't thanked God that you came back. As for becoming a monster of any kind, I don't think you could be one if you tried. Yes, there have been instances of radical personality change in some cases but for most families, having their loved ones resuscitated is a miracle – something to be celebrated! I blame myself that I haven't been sufficiently able to show you how much I celebrate and am grateful for my own special miracle". Despite his best will, Mark's voice broke again leaving his words hanging in the air.

Caught up in his own grief and self-recrimination, he started when he felt the arms around him. "I'm sorry dad" it was more of a whisper than anything else " I don't know what I was thinking. I just… needed to make sure that I'm not hurting you and Jess and Amanda, without even realising it." " Steve, you've never consciously hurt me in all of your life. The only thing that you could do to hurt me is if you di…" unable to finish, Mark reached out and hugged his son close to him.

For a long moment the hug held but years of reticence quickly turned the moment into awkwardness. Steve let go first, turning back to his seat to allow Mark to compose himself. Exhaustion weighed heavy but he needed to restore some balance for both of them. Casting about almost desperately for something to lighten the atmosphere, he remembered an incident from the day before that he had saved up to relate to his father.

"You know, dad" this time the tone was genuinely light and teasing even if his voice was more than a bit hoarse "Jess may not agree with the whole not monster thing. Yesterday, at Bobs, we had another knock down fight over his precious coffee beans." As he told his story, embellishing it for effect, Mark relaxed as well, smiling at not only the rather tall tale, but also at the fact that another day had been survived safely.

That night the expected nightmares didn't come and both Sloans slept dreamlessly and deeply, waking late the next morning ready to face another day together.


End file.
